


The Leaves They Grow Green

by incandescens



Category: In Nomine
Genre: F/M, Gen, In which the author has been reading MR James
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-12
Updated: 2014-03-12
Packaged: 2018-01-15 10:33:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1301725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/incandescens/pseuds/incandescens
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three angels. One mission on earth. A dark history, ghosts, interfering demons, and something which Caliah should remember...</p><p>(Set after _A Long Way From Home_.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Leaves They Grow Green

  
The train jolted as it entered the tunnel, a brief moment of darkness in the windows before it came out again into the spring morning. Birches on the banks above arched pale white branches and green leaves against the cool morning sky, thin traceries of colour that twisted in the wind of our passage.  
  
Faber yawned. Again. He was leaning against the corner of the seat, chin on his chest, and somehow managing to yawn while dozing. In repose his face didn't lose any of the strength or the pain that marked it, the mouth still taut, the tiny lines at the corners of his eyes still creased; his dark hair, streaked with iron-grey, was ruffled from brushing against the seat, hanging in untidy curls over his eyebrows.  
  
In the seat opposite us, Rigziel had taken advantage of the empty carriage to put his feet up on the fabric of the seat beside us, and was relaxing in the way that only the very fit and muscular can manage, legs stretched out and the newspaper propped on them. He had taken the trouble - as usual - to tie his dark hair back in a ponytail, but I charitably absolved him of dressing romantically on purpose. It just happened, with him.  
  
This, I reflected, is what happens when a Michaelite has a suitably muscular Vessel. They manage to look handsome in it. An unfortunate but frequent occurrence, even with Seraphim.   
  
Rigziel grunted at something in his paper, and Faber shifted in response in his sleep. I looked out of the window again.  
  
My own face flickered back at me, the landscape passing behind it in a swirl of grass cutting and trees and fields, a mask held in front of the shifting world. Michael had repaired the Vessel that Baal had given me, and left me with it; I was not sure whether to take it as praise, rebuke, or simple practicality. The eyes seemed deeper now when I looked at them, with more weight and patience to the stormcloud-grey of the irises, but the bones were the same, high and thin, the hair still short-cut and curling dark brown, the skin still pale and unfreckled. I was wearing a tshirt and jeans, my rucksack slung on the overhead rack and bulging with practicalities such as clean socks, notebooks, and gun.  
  
It was good to be back on the job.  
  
"Meat loaf gives rise to circumstances, eight letters," Rigziel said hopefully.  
  
"Hm." I considered. "Sounds like an anagram."  
  
He frowned at the paper. "Why didn't you get me something with an easier crossword?"  
  
"The rest were all tabloids," I said. "Biased, confused, full of the Media's mindless trash, bulked out by paparazzi jamming headlines with..."  
  
He waved a hand. "All right, all right. Next time I ask the Malakite."  
  
"I thought you had said there was absolutely no use for Faber on this mission," I said, mildly.  
  
"There is." He grinned. "Getting me biased newspapers with solvable crosswords."  
  
I smiled faintly, and settled back again as the train ground to a halt. Lesser Hodcombe, the station sign advertised, but nobody was getting on or off here. The station tannoy wheezed a cracked notification that the train would be calling at a dozen more stops before reaching Exmouth, then gave up and crackled back to silence again.   
  
When the train lurched back into motion, Rigziel folded his paper decisively. "Next stop," he stated.  
  
Faber opened one eye. "Does this mean I get a briefing at last?"  
  
Rigziel frowned at him. "May I point out that it was _you_ who attached yourself to a mission already in progress? I'm doing you a favour as it is by assuming you aren't a rank amateur."  
  
Faber opened the other eye. "That was why the recruiting speech?"  
  
Rigziel shrugged. "I was pointing out to you, in a reasoned way, the fact that a number of other Servitors of Creation have chosen to temporarily follow Michael. If you wanted to join us, we'd welcome you." He'd been quite polite about it, too, all things considered, bearing in mind some of the other recruitment pitches I'd heard while round Heaven of late. Servitors of Creation were in demand, and Word-bound Malakim of Creation were definitely worth attention.  
  
Faber straightened himself, flexing his shoulders as he worked out the kinks. "Okay. I've heard the offer, I appreciate it, I'm staying with Eli for the moment." I could sense the deliberate attempt to damp down offence that Rigziel had even _thought_ he'd desert Eli - or do what he considered desertion. "Now what exactly are you two up to?"  
  
I decided that it was time for me to divert their attention slightly. "Apparently there's something odd going on in Milverton. That's the next stop."  
  
"Odd?" Faber asked. "Odd? Not world-shaking malevolence? Not demonic visitations? Not zombies lurching from the grave and shaking the foundations of skyscrapers?" He leaned forward. "We're going to a little English country village because something's _odd_?"  
  
"Odd," I repeated. "One of our Mercurians - I think it was Kernalai, or Katherine Leeson - had her car break down near the village, and she had to jog for the nearest station. She didn't like it."  
  
"That's an understatement," Rigziel muttered.  
  
"What did she say, exactly?" Faber asked, more curious now.  
  
Rigziel closed his eyes, tilting his head slightly, and caught another person's inflection. "It felt as though they were all moving through preset patterns. I could sense the usual binding ties, but they all ran on rails round each other like the figures in a chiming clock. More and more, as I waited for the train, I felt as if something were beginning to notice me. I was glad to leave, and I can't point at anything and say that I knew it was demonic, but something was wrong."  
  
"That isn't very definite," Faber complained.  
  
"What do you want, a guided map?" asked Rigziel, as he opened his eyes again.  
  
"She has a good record," I said. "She wouldn't jump at shadows."  
  
"Then why two of you?" Faber asked. "Isn't it overmanning the mission a bit?"  
  
And there we hit a point that puzzled me as well. A Word-bound like Rigziel himself was heavy guns for a job like this, unless he was supposed to be keeping an eye on me - but then a lot of other people could have been assigned to keep an eye on me. Which all argued that there was more to this than anyone but Michael knew, and Michael was choosing not to tell us yet.   
  
Rigziel grunted, in the way that said he agreed but didn't see fit to comment on it.   
  
Faber considered him, and decided not to press the point. "So what are our covers?"  
  
"Caliah and I," Rigziel said, with more smugness than the situation really demanded, "are posing as hikers. Passing through, stopping for a couple of days to enjoy the unspoilt countryside, doing our best to ignore the railway and anything that spoils the bucolic ideal..."  
  
"I'm doing the lying, naturally," I commented.  
  
"... and you..." Rigziel looked Faber up and down. "A slumming author or historical researcher?"  
  
"Both," Faber said firmly. "I'm going to write a book about the history of the district, and I just happen to be arriving here just now."  
  
The train began to judder as it slowed, coming into the station. I stood up and reached our rucksacks down from the shelf, tossing Rigziel his. "Specialising in blacksmiths and forges?"  
  
"Do what you know best, I always say," Faber replied, and tucked Rigziel's paper under his arm. "Oh, good, you haven't started on the crossword yet. I always like doing them."

* * *

The station platform was streaked with moss that wreathed around the stones, a lacework of green against the grey. The rattling of the departing train had died away as we stood there, looking up and down the tracks at the trees and shrubbery that fringed them. Midday light was thick and heavy, flashing from the panes of glass that covered the ticket window, glinting on the iron of the tracks. The whole station was quiet.  
  
"We probably shouldn't arrive together," said Faber.  
  
Rigziel considered. "I don't see why not. We're all supposed to have come in on the same train, after all. We can perfectly well have walked up from the station together, even if we don't know each other." He looked around. "Which way was the town supposed to be again?"  
  
I pointed to the road running to the east. "Along there, about half a mile."   
  
Rigziel nodded, and adjusted his rucksack as he headed across to the gate. "Have we decided on a relationship yet?"  
  
"You don't look like brother and sister," Faber commented as he followed. "Friends or lovers, or cousins, but not brother and sister."  
  
It was quite true; Rigziel and I really didn't look like close kin.   
  
"Cousins," I suggested. "Allows for a family tie, but we don't have to sound as if we grew up together that way."  
  
Rigziel grunted something as he nodded. I knew perfectly well that he was uncomfortable with the whole concept of the lie, but we didn't have a lot of choice. "Richard Miles."  
  
"Cecilia Miles." I nodded.  
  
"Are you sure you wouldn't like to be a _little_ more conspicuous about identifying yourself?" Faber asked, somewhat waspishly.  
  
"And you're John Smith?" I replied.  
  
He sighed. "Okay, okay, doll, so if they - whoever they is, if there is a they - do figure out what we are, the names aren't going to be much use in hiding it, right?"  
  
"Right," said Rigziel, as we headed along the road.   
  
The first of the houses came into view as we turned a bend, squatting comfortably by the side of the road. The brick was a mixture of old and very old, and the lilacs in the front garden had clearly been growing there for decades. Other houses were dotted down the road away from it, and at the end there was a tiny village green.   
  
"Sniper's defence," Rigziel murmured as we made our way towards the green. "Give me a few men with bows or guns along here in the upper windows, or in the corners, and they could hold this road nicely by night. Day would be harder, as attackers might be able to get behind the houses and outflank them."  
  
I considered. "Feasible. I wonder if there have been any major battles here?"  
  
"Something to look up in the records," Faber said. His voice was quiet, and it had the same hushed quality that I had noticed in my own and in Rigziel's. Kernalai had been right; this wasn't just the English summer, there was something else lying on this town, and we were speaking softly to avoid its attention, pressed down by a blanket of stillness.  
  
The sun struck like a hammer as we came out of the comparatively shaded road, stepping onto the green, and we had to blink. Opposite us stood what was clearly the village inn, its front yard garnished with rosemary. Bees hummed as they settled on the grey-blue flowers. A sign hung in the still air, roughly painted with the image of a capering figure clothed in leaves, and the name, "THE GREEN MAN."  
  
Faber snorted. "Stereotypical."  
  
There was something more troubled behind Rigziel's eyes, and his voice had an echo to it as he muttered, "Things become stereotypical because they often happen, or because they're true."  
  
"Rooms for the night," I said, and headed in.  
  
The room inside was dark, with thick amber shafts of light lying across the wooden tables and chairs from the leaded windows. A shadow detached itself from behind the long bar, and stepped into view; a middle-aged man in the light, long white moustaches bristling unevenly down from his nose, a spreading gap in his hairline, jaw jutting and build still showing traces of muscle under the fat. Despite the heat, he was in a good shirt and trousers, collar and cuffs all neatly buttoned.  
  
"Good morning, young lady," he said, voice a bass that would probably carry across the room if he needed to shout over a crowd. "What can I do for you?"  
  
Behind me, Rigziel and Faber came through the door, their shadows marching along the track of light and then coming to a standstill. I could feel their gazes flicking across my back as they assessed the room, surprisingly alike for once.  
  
"My cousin and I need rooms for the night," I said, nodding in Rigziel's direction. "Possibly for a few nights, if we end up basing ourselves here." I grinned. "And depending how energetic we feel, and if we really do end up doing the full walking tour thing or not."  
  
He chuckled. "No problem, young lady. I think you'll find our rates quite reasonable." He quoted a figure that made me twitch slightly; it _was_ very reasonable, and even cheap compared to most country inns these days.   
  
"That'll be fine," Rigziel cut in. "Does it include breakfast?"  
  
The landlord nodded. "Just get yourself down at a decent hour, young man, though I don't think you'll have any problem with that. Mary will have something on the Aga for you." He glanced to Faber. "And what can I do for you, sir?" A different turn of address, here, and something in it suggested wariness. I let my awareness move in familiar channels as I reached out to him. Comfortable security, yes, that belied his face, enthusiasm at the prospect of a couple of guests, but towards Faber the shading of an awareness of _foreigner_. Curious.  
  
Faber smiled. "I'm just staying a few days here myself." His accent had an American shading from the past. "Getting some background for this book I'm planning. I understand there's a local forge?"  
  
 _for am I not smith to this village, am I not one of you?_  
  
Something stirred, something moved, and I felt my fingernails bite into my palm as I held to control. Rigziel's presence was a reassuring bulk behind my shoulder. I couldn't tell if he sensed it or not.  
  
The landlord chuckled again, looking reassured. "Oh yes, sir, we still have the old place, though it hasn't been used in a dozen years or more. Old James keeps it in repair and swept out. I daresay you can take some photographs of it, or whatever you author gentlemen like to do. And we can put you up here, certainly, no problem there."  
  
The sign creaked outside, as a breath of wind set it swinging.  
  
"The Green Man," I said, as Rigziel signed the register. "Is it, well, one of those..."  
  
"Myths and legends," Faber cut in.   
  
I pushed my hands into the pockets of my jeans. "A real person, I meant, like Robin Hood." Rigziel's twitch was very controlled, and only someone who knew him well would have noticed it. Seraphim always get like that when you start mentioning historical inaccuracies near them. I looked towards the landlord, big-eyed. "This isn't anywhere _near_ Nottingham, though..."  
  
He filled in the end of my sentence, as I had expected. "No, young lady, nowhere near. It's like this gentleman here says, just one of those stories about a strange man who symbolises spring and harvest and so on, no better than he should be."  
  
"Oh," I said, sounding partly enlightened. "One of those things."

* * *

Faber slumped on his bed. As a presumably wealthy author, the landlord had offered him the best room in the house, and he had felt it appropriate to accept. I made a mental note of the fact that the bed would hold a reasonably energetic two, and turned my mind back to business.   
  
Rigziel was propping up the wall, and scowling. "One of those things," he mimicked me.  
  
I shrugged. "We'd already decided which of us got to go through the paper records and which of us got to question the people. Don't blame me because I've started on establishing my persona."  
  
"Not that," he said. "If it is an Ethereal, you're taking it lightly."  
  
"You think so too?" Faber queried.  
  
"Oh, probably," Rigziel replied. "Green Man, influence in country village, no outright Symphonic disturbances - sounds like some sort of Ethereal foolishness to me."  
  
"Now who's taking it lightly?" I asked, moving across to peer out of the window at the green.  
  
"So we need to locate it, then stop it," Faber said.  
  
"Talk with it, bind it, or kill it," I replied, leaning on the sill.   
  
"And why do you think our Master wanted us to bind it?"  
  
"He what?" I said, turning, and then blinked as both the men stared at me.  
  
"Who what?" asked Rigziel.  
  
I paused, thinking. "Which of you just said that?" Annoyingly, memory didn't quite provide the tone of voice; just the words, lodged in my memory.  
  
"Said which?" Rigziel asked again.   
  
A moment of fear stirred inside me. "One of you just asked why I thought our Master wanted us to bind it."  
  
They looked at each other, then Faber said, eyes troubled, "Neither of us. You just came up with that comment out of nothing."  
  
Rigziel frowned across the room at me. "You heard it?"  
  
"As if someone were behind my shoulder," I replied.  
  
Faber pulled himself off the bed. "Are you ... picking up on anything odd, or whatever you Elohim call it?"  
  
"There's something here." My words were slow. "You two can feel that as well, though, can't you? Something old. But that didn't feel like it exactly. It felt more question-and-response. More personal."  
  
"Personal to you?" Rigziel asked.  
  
"Yes," I said, trying to recapture the memory of that voice. "It sounded like somebody I knew who I expected to speak. It wasn't you two - it was a light tenor, faint French accent - but it felt like someone I knew. And there was earlier."  
  
Faber tilted his head, listening, as I looked towards him. "I thought I heard something when you were talking to the landlord."  
  
Rigziel pushed away from the wall. "You too?"  
  
Faber blinked. "Did everyone but me hear it?"  
  
"I'm not sure what I did hear," said Rigziel, slowly, his eyes half-focused. "I didn't even notice it consciously at the time; I just seemed to feel something stirring. But now you mention it, yes, there was a voice."  
  
"Something about a blacksmith," I said. I couldn't remember hearing more than that. "A man's voice, and an associated ripple."  
  
"Wonderful," said Faber, tone heavy with irony. "We get to discover the situation by jumping headfirst into the middle of it."  
  
I felt my lips twitch in a smile. "At least we know we're not on a fool's errand."  
  
Faber shrugged. "At the risk of sounding Elohite - we need more data."  
  
Rigziel scowled at the window, then said, "Let's get to it. Caliah, you're talking to people. Faber, you check out that forge, and the local shops, if there are any. I'll try for the church and town hall and paper records."  
  
Faber nodded. "Sounds reasonable. Meet again for supper?"  
  
"Unless something else happens." Rigziel nodded, and opened the door, the hinges creaking as it swung.  
  
Faber touched my arm as I moved across to follow. His eyes were dark with a fierce concern, and I could feel the warmth of his affection. "Are you sure you're all right, Caliah? We don't know what that was - what either of those things were - or what's going on here."  
  
I truly did not wish to provoke him, so I bit back on the first comment that would have pointed out that I was entirely competent. "Whatever it was, we need more information, and you cannot just leave me sitting here or send me back up to the Groves. Perhaps there is something here that plays with memories."  
  
Rigziel led the way down the stairs, turning corner after corner as we made our way down the cramped passage. Sepia-tinted photographs watched us in flat brown-and-grey from the walls, indistinct in the gloom.   
  
"I worry," Faber said softly. "I know that I shouldn't, and I know you're capable, but I still worry."  
  
I reached behind me to touch his hand on the banister. "I worry too. No shame in that."

* * *

Balancing the colander of blackberries in my hand, I bent at the knees and _stretched_ down and under. Yes, as I had thought. There was a cluster of untouched fruit just there.  
  
"Are you all right, Cecilia?" Mrs Petherill's voice echoed down the garden from where she was sitting shelling peas. "It's very kind of you to offer to help like this."  
  
"No trouble at all," I called back, and licked some blood off my hand. Those thorns were vicious.  
  
Beyond the wall, I could hear some of the children playing; a typically vicious game of childhood, with a lot of running up and down and jumping on each other and screeching. It troubled me, that I could have looked so calmly on it as both Punisher and Power; the Habbalite would have considered that they were proving themselves strong, while the Elohite was simply restrained, noting that they did no real harm to each other.   
  
What was the real distance between me as I was then, and me as I might be now? I knew there was a difference, but sometimes it seemed a small one.  
  
The last few blackberries came off the bramble into my hand, and I straightened, wiping my hands on my jeans and then digging my fists into the small of my back, stretching till the muscles felt comfortable. I had spent all afternoon going through the village and chattering to anyone who could be persuaded into talking, and now the sun had set and the garden was in the half-light of dusk, the soil still warm from the day's heat.   
  
Beyond the wall, the children stopped running at each other, and began chanting a rhyme.  
  
"Greenjack grows behind the holly,   
"Greenjack's waiting in the tree,  
"Green leaves growing for the summer,  
"Greenjack's waiting there for me!  
"One, two, three, four, five, six, seven!"  
  
There were shrieks, and then the sound of running again. I let my perceptions reach out towards them, and felt nothing but the sharp, rich emotions of children, fright and enthusiasm and eagerness. And yet, beneath them... something else, something that I had felt like a hidden seed in all the other emotions which I had sensed here. Something like an owner's mark, a brand, a blocked channel that led elsewhere.  
  
And that was an area which I did not care to explore, not yet.  
  
I made my way down the gravel path, back to where Mrs Petherill was sitting. Her hair was a sturdy grey, pinned up and back and skewered with hairgrips into an iron-hard bun, and her dress was a green-and-pink flowered cotton. She put down the sieve into which she had been shelling the peas, and smiled up at me, adjusting the silver-framed spectacles that were balanced on her nose. She had been the schoolmistress, she had told me, for the last forty years. I was sure that the children had been very well behaved.  
  
"It makes a change to have someone coming through here that actually knows a blackberry from a loganberry, or whatever those Transatlantic abominations are," she commented. "Thank you, dear. I've been trying to think back about what you asked, but I'm afraid that I really can't remember much."  
  
I picked up the sieve of peas, balanced it on my elbow, and offered her my free hand to help her rise. "It's always been fairly quiet here, then?"  
  
"Oh, yes," she said, and released my hand once she was upright, her back ruler-straight. "Come in and have some more tea, Cecilia? I owe you something, after your help with those blackberries."  
  
"I'd be delighted," I said.   
  
In the kitchen, I was relegated to sitting on a stool at the table, and "not getting in the way" while she went about the business of teapot and biscuits. "... of course, a number of our young men went off to the War, in the thirties and forties, but not that many. We had some sort of influenza epidemic around then."  
  
Curious. I was inclined to suspect anything out of the ordinary, at the moment. "Did many people die?"  
  
"Oh, no," she said. "I was helping nurse then, as a VAD, but we were very lucky. Everyone lived through it. A blessing, the vicar said."  
  
I nodded soberly, and sipped my tea.  
  
"And the Great War was before my time, naturally." She sugared her own tea. "My father said that he was lucky to have been spared the draft for that, but he was refused on medical grounds. He'd had an accident just the year before while he was chopping some wood, and nearly taken off his foot, the poor man. He used to say later that he'd never realised how lucky he'd been."  
  
"In missing the War?" I asked.  
  
She gave me a sharp look. "No, dear, in not cutting the foot off entirely. I remember his scar. A great red thing, right along the line of the foot, and partway up the leg. Of course, we didn't have the sort of medical attention then that we do now, and it was just stitched by the doctor. None of that skin graft business."  
  
I blinked.  
  
"The sort of thing that all those celebrities have, dear. Agnes down the road gets all sorts of foolish magazines about the Royal Family, and the sort of people they spend their time associating with. As far as I'm concerned, I had a good husband without needing any of that sort of surgery, and I'm quite happy to have done without it."  
  
"What was your husband like?" I said. It might be a more profitable alternative.  
  
It earned me a ten-minute disquisition. The late Mr Petherill had run a small local business as an ironmonger, inspired to it by some vigorous experience in his childhood.  
  
"But what was it that happened to him?" I put in, when I could.  
  
She frowned. "Dear George never did like to talk about it. He did say that it happened when he was quite young - about eight years old, I think."   
  
I mentally calculated the approximate timing, and sited this at some point in the twenties, then nodded again helpfully.  
  
She leaned forward, her tone growing confidential. I reached out to touch her emotions, and in one of those sudden flashes of clarity, saw that it was something that still troubled her; an uncompleted piece of business, an unfinished puzzle. I saw something else in her, too, visible in her face now. The light behind her eyes was distanced, somehow; I looked in them, and I saw the resignation of a woman prepared to die, who had given herself into her body's last battle and waited to fall.  
  
I hadn't realised that she was so close to death. Her bearing had deceived me.   
  
"He told me that he had seen something in the woods," she said. "Some strangers had been visiting in the village, and he followed them into the woods when they went out there at night. You know boys."  
  
I nodded, and agreed that they were like that.  
  
"He would never tell me about it," she said, "but he always kept iron over the doorways, when he had his own house."  
  
"Thank you," I said, and finished my tea. When I met her eyes again, there was a dry resignation in them.  
  
"It's good of you to listen to an old woman, Cecilia," she said. "Particularly when you want to be out and about yourself."  
  
I shook my head. "You have lived things that I don't know and will never have the chance to know," I replied. "Why can't I want to hear about them?"  
  
"Because you're young." She gave me an arid smile. "And young people know that they're never going to come to this. When you die, dear, I'm sure that you expect it to be nice and quick, and not involve anything like pneumonia or arthritis or whatever, not that you expect to die."  
  
I was silent a moment, trying to comprehend her. It was quite true. I couldn't understand death in the same way that she did.  
  
"You don't understand, Cecilia," she said. "Death has our face when he comes for us - the footsteps along the corridor are familiar things. We're born waiting for them, something in us recognises them. I've been listening to my body slowing a while now."  
  
"And you want to die?" My voice was quiet, the whole room was hushed. An angle of shadow fell across the rich wood floor in a line of darkness from the window, and the sky outside had the utter clarity that comes with neither moon nor sun, but simple emptiness.  
  
"No." Her chair creaked as she shifted. "I know that I must - it's not the same thing." There was a clink as she put her cup down.   
  
"Thank you for your words," I said, and meant it. It was a vision that I could not share, but could try to understand.  
  
"Thank you for listening." Her eyes were kind. "You'd better run along now, if you want to be back at the Green Man in time for supper."  
  
As I made my way out through the back door, to jog along the lane beyond the wall back to the inn, I saw that the children had gone. 

* * *

The sky was still clear as I entered the inn, but the moon had risen and was hanging in a blank white circle on the horizon, and shadows lay across the green behind me. Inside, Rigziel and Faber were at a table in the corner, and a dozen or so other villagers were spotted around. The landlord was behind the bar, and I paused to collect a glass of cider from him before heading over to join Rigziel and Faber. I set the glass down in front of the empty chair they had left for me, and hitched up my jeans as I sat down.  
  
Rigziel stared at his own beer with a fixity that should have left it bubbling and boiling. A brush at his emotions had me flicking my attention away rapidly; he was entirely furious, something that I had no wish to subject myself to more than was necessary. Faber, in the other chair, was slumped comfortably, and his lips curled in what was nearly the afterglow of sex; that comfortable satiation, the feeling of warmth and relaxation.  
  
My chair's legs grated on the floor as I pulled it in to the table.   
  
Rigziel muttered, "Caliah," into his beer.  
  
"Rigziel, Faber," I said, my voice pitched as low as his had been. A low throb of conversation pulsed between the villagers who were in the room, enough to let us talk freely as long as we kept our voices down. "Any luck?"  
  
Rigziel used a lot of plain good old-fashioned Anglo-Saxon vulgarity in his answer. Faber looked nearly impressed, not so much at the word choice as at the breath control and projection.   
  
"Faber?" I said hopefully.  
  
"Oh? Mmm," he said, and took a sip of his whiskey. "Nice forge. Very nice forge. Wonderful condition. I just fired it up, gave it a quick once-over. You could do good work there."  
  
"And the village?" I asked, hope receding into a barely visible mirage in the distance. I should have thought about what might happen if I put Faber anywhere near a working forge.  
  
He frowned, coming a few steps down off his fluffy cloud of happiness. "I don't like it, Caliah."  
  
"You thrill me with your perceptions," Rigziel muttered at his beer.  
  
"Try some vodka," Faber suggested. "Lift your mood a bit."  
  
"This is an English village," Rigziel declared. "I am therefore drinking English beer. What I am ready to rip someone's _head_ off about is that someone - someone, I don't know who, I don't know when, I only know that when I catch up with them I am going to rip off their arms and stick the soggy ends up their rear ends - has gone through the parish records and taken out large chunks." He took a swallow of beer. "Now tell me why you don't like it."  
  
Faber sipped at his whiskey again. "Nobody is doing anything new here. There's no Creation, and don't give me that look. This is something that I understand by my nature, and this place is _stagnant_. Stasis. Entropy. Nothing gets created, nothing is made. Hardly any people are born - have you counted the number of children? - and hardly any leave, and nothing changes. The air feels like death."  
  
I nodded. "That fits with what I found. An epidemic around the time of the Second World War that didn't kill anyone, but kept people in the village. Several accidents, non-fatal again, that stopped men going off to fight in the First World War."  
  
I blinked. For a moment Faber and Rigziel had worn different faces, and I had been sitting with two strangers - no, not strangers, people that I _knew_ , but not ones that I could name now. A young blondish man, and a taller, older one with grey streaks in his ginger hair.   
  
Faber clicked his fingers. "Caliah? Anything wrong?"  
  
I shook my head sharply. "Another flash." I described the men, and my feelings, keeping my tone neutral. This was not a time to be swayed by emotion.  
  
Rigziel took a long drink of his beer.  
  
"This is not the time to get drunk," said Faber. Hypocrite, I thought affectionately.  
  
"It takes more than this to get me drunk," Rigziel shot back.   
  
"Some other time," I said hastily. "You can flex your testosterone and drink the place dry."  
  
They both gave me a look which suggested that Elohim were thoroughly disappointing in their failure to understand the joys of competitive macho rivalry. I returned a bland stare, and drank from my own glass. Good cider.  
  
"How much of the records were destroyed?" I asked Rigziel.  
  
He was more of a mood to discuss the matter rationally now, rather than muttering into the beer. "Someone pulled bits and pieces out, going back to the sixteenth century, up to somewhere in the nineteen-twenties. I'd think that was when it was done, judging by the condition of the papers, and the fact that nobody rifled it _after_ then. Whoever it was probably pulled stuff that was unrelated to the matter in question, if they were intelligent, so we can't just try and trace it by the gaps."  
  
My brows wrinkled. "Still, at least we know that there was _something_ \- unless the records were taken entirely to confuse the issue - and we have a starting-point for the search."  
  
Faber nodded. "And there is something here. We've all felt it."  
  
"Oh, yes," said Rigziel softly, and I wondered what he had sensed.  
  
"Ethereal?" Faber asked.  
  
"I am reasonably certain," I said. "Probably taking the local form of the "Green Man", and called "Greenjack" in the rhymes I heard the children singing."  
  
"Options?" said Faber.  
  
"We need a way to bind it." Rigziel sloshed the remainder of his beer round in the tankard. "You're the smith and Creationer, Faber. Any ideas?"  
  
 _smith, I have a task for you_  
  
We all twitched at the sensation of something stirring from its sleep around us, something old, twisting in long hot vines that seemed twined through the village. It wasn't awake yet, but it was here, and it passed by us like a breath of plague.  
  
"What..." said Rigziel, his voice very low.  
  
"Chain." Faber's tone was hoarse. "I can make a chain that should hold it. Then we can decide to kill or talk or whatever."  
  
Rigziel nodded.  
  
I was rubbing at my temples. "It's strong." My words came out more harshly than I had intended. "God be with us if it ever fully wakes."  
  
The landlord was picking his way through the tables towards us, and I pulled composure over me again, managing to glance up and smile at him. He returned the smile, leaning over the table. "Everything all right? Can I get you people anything?"  
  
Faber and I declared that everything was wonderful - though, Faber said with a meaningful glance at me, some of us had been out in the sun too long and were feeling headachy - and we ordered some of his wife's pie and vegetables for supper. Rigziel joined in on the order, and offered to fetch us all fresh drinks.  
  
I looked up at the landlord again, thoughtfully. "Did you know George Petherill?" I asked.  
  
He nodded. "That I did, young lady. A good man, he was, and a good businessman too."  
  
I carefully let uncertainty seep into my voice. "I was talking to Mrs Petherill earlier today, and she was telling me about how her husband had seen something odd in the woods, when he was younger."  
  
He chuckled, relaxing. "Oh, that old story. George never used to like to mention it to the ladies. Myself, I always had the impression that he followed some of those visitors of his into the wood, and saw a bit more than he bargained for, if you know what I mean?" He chuckled again, and looked on the verge of elbowing Faber in the ribs in a man-to-man way.  
  
"Oh," I said, sounding enlightened and a touch embarrassed. "Were the visitors here for long?"  
  
He shook his head, as Rigziel returned with fresh beer and cider and whiskey. "Oh, dear no. Spit-spot, he said, in and out within the week. Jamison, him as had the old Green Man before me, he said that it was one lady and three men with her, when he mentioned it, and I can't say that was often."  
  
The buzz of conversation rose and ebbed behind him, spiking idly, unconcerned.   
  
"Were they holidaymakers?" Rigziel asked, sliding back into his seat.   
  
The landlord frowned. "Well, hm. It would have been not long after the Great War, so they might have been. Jamison never did mention it, though he showed me which of the photographs they were."  
  
Our table was silent for a moment, before we all said, "Photos?"  
  
"Oh, yes." The landlord beamed down at us, happy to be able to please us. "They're just on the stairs along there. If you want to see, I can show you; don't worry about your drinks, nobody will touch them."  
  
We put our glasses down hurriedly, pushing back from the table. The landlord seemed amused by our eagerness, but trudged over to the staircase, and up to the first bend in the stairs, where several of the sepia photographs hung in the shadow. He indicated one. "Here, you see? Jamison told me this was them."  
  
Rigziel was a pace behind Faber and myself, his greater height letting him see over our shoulders, but he could not have understood what it was that halted Faber and me in our tracks, and made my hands curl, and the breath come hard between Faber's teeth. I felt the incomprehension in Rigziel, and at the same time the horrified understanding in Faber, and they were bitter in my mouth.  
  
Four figures in the photograph, dry and sepia and seventy years ago. A bulky man by a car of that period, perhaps the chauffeur; two other men, one slender and blond, the second taller and with hair that might have been reddish; and a woman at the rear, slender and ash-blonde, pale dress fashionable and precise.  
  
It was Caliah as she had once been, as I had once been, Caliah the Punisher of Baal.  
  
Rigziel managed to make some excuse to get rid of the landlord, then muttered sharply, "What _is_ it?"  
  
Faber spoke before I could. "It's the answer to why Caliah is remembering stuff. Tell me, Caliah, what was it that Baal wanted here?" His voice had a rising edge of anger to it. "I thought you were free of him."  
  
Very carefully, very precisely, I said, "I do not know. I remember nothing of this."  
  
Rigziel's presence behind me was reassurance, steady and firm. I could feel the jagged points of curiosity and uncertainty in it, but his voice was deep as he said, "She speaks the truth. Probably the memory was removed from her."  
  
 _my sister_  
  
"Is that possible?" Faber sounded shaken for a moment.  
  
"Oh, yes." My voice was dry now, and calmer. "Possible, and even likely, if it were important enough."  
  
"Your group was sent here to bind the thing, then," Faber theorised. Rigziel nodded his head slightly in agreement. "And George Petherill saw something that he wouldn't speak of ever again. And it worked, or the thing would be a lot more free than it is. And then..."  
  
I winced privately. "And then I imagine we destroyed all the records."  
  
Rigziel growled, low, in his throat.  
  
"Well, we would have too," I pointed out.  
  
"That," Rigziel snapped, "is entirely beside the point."  
  
"It doesn't actually alter anything." As I spoke, I felt myself grow more settled. Uncomfortable as it might be, it was an explanation of my recent instability, and was welcome as such. "We have more data now, and we know what happened to the records, and we know roughly which area of woods to go to - the part where George Petherill went exploring. We just need to continue with the plan as laid out."  
  
Rigziel thoughtfully kicked at the wall. He was wearing combat boots, so he was more likely to hurt the wall than his foot. "We need to know where it all began."  
  
Illumination burst on me like lightning. I felt myself grinning. "I think I have an idea."  
  
"Share, share," muttered Faber. He still didn't look happy.  
  
"Assizes." I snapped my fingers. "Any important criminal business here will have been taken to the nearest large town - that would be Exmouth - to be tried at the Assize Court there, with the visiting judge. They'll have records. They might also have records of other interesting stuff here. And that would be _very_ difficult to destroy, even if the Servitors of Baal thought of it."  
  
Faber's face lightened. "I like it. It'll mean splitting up or leaving here, though."  
  
Rigziel said, crisply, "Split up. I don't want to leave this place on its own to ferment any further. Caliah, you go check on those records. I'll keep an eye on the place. Faber, will a day be long enough for you to create something useful?"  
  
Faber tapped his fingers on the banister. "Oh, I think so. I think I can manage something useful." He was looking smug now, and small wonder, to find himself so vital to the situation.  
  
I smiled at them both, feeling the pleasure of being a step closer to a solution. "First thing tomorrow morning, then."  
  
 _and I will see you tomorrow evening, then, my wife_  
  
The slow whisper of wakefulness breathed past us again, hot as the end of the summer day, and dry and stagnant as the worst of Faber's fears.

* * *

Full night now, and the window hung silent where Faber had left it open. There was no wind to cool our bodies or ruffle the sheets. His breathing had been regular for the last hour, but I didn't think that he was walking the Marches.  
  
"Caliah?"  
  
"Yes?"  
  
He shifted position, moving a fold of sheet back from my shoulderblade, and I felt his breath on it. There was a pause, as though he had decided to select a different question from his original choice. "Will Rigziel mind this?"  
  
"You'd know if he did," I said, dryly.  
  
"Oh." He paused. "He's difficult to read."  
  
"You're both alpha types," I said, letting myself relax as he settled back on the mattress. "But there are enough differences to make it impossible to just predict the other from your own actions or choices. It keeps on throwing you both off, I think."  
  
"Flex your brain at me some more, Power," he muttered.  
  
"You know you like it really." I could feel the smile in my voice.  
  
"He just acts - well, protectively. I keep on expecting to be held up against the wall and asked my intentions." His voice was slightly helpless.  
  
"Don't worry," I said, and I rolled over to face him. The bedsprings creaked. "We've never gone in for shotgun weddings."  
  
Faber twitched a shoulder. "He's just..."  
  
"No." It needed to be said. "Not just him, though he's part of it. You're just, too. You're just too used to working alone, my sweet Virtue, or working in groups where you're in charge. Rigziel isn't pushing the dominance issue, but equally he's not letting you take it either, and you're having more problems dealing with it than he is."  
  
He reached across to stroke a tangle of hair back from my face. His tone was gentle as he said, "I know. I'm trying to be good. I just feel the outsider, next to you two Michaelites."  
  
"We don't mean it that way," I said.  
  
"I know." He kept on brushing the hair away from my face. "And I'm probably stupid to feel it this much. And yes, before you say it, I know I barged my way in on this one."  
  
"Serendipitous," I commented mildly. "Look how useful you're being."  
  
The change of subject diverted him, as I had expected. "It's been a while since I had to make something specifically for binding."  
  
"You think it's feasible, though?" I asked.  
  
"Oh, yes." His hand traced down my face and across the neck and shoulder, down to the wrist. "I can manage something suitably artistic..."  
  
"Artistic?"  
  
He closed his hand around my wrist. "Of course artistic. Anything done in the true spirit of creation is artistic by nature."  
  
"If you say so," I murmured meekly.  
  
"Anyhow." He returned to the subject. "I should have something done by tomorrow evening. Not something that would hold forever - that would take more time - but something that will bind it long enough for some sort of action on our part."  
  
"That sounds right."   
  
He moved on the bed again, and his other hand came round to tangle in my hair. Something flickered in the back of his mind, briefly, and I tasted the edges of it. Memory, acid desire, possessiveness. His eyes were in shadow.  
  
"What are you thinking of?" I asked, voice pitched to neutrality.  
  
"I was remembering a moon-pale Habbalite," he said, dreamily. "Your hands are still the same, still thin, still long. Did you choose that?" The edge of his palm brushed my cheek.  
  
"They were efficient," I said, quietly. Some things are unwise to choose to remember; they stir the blood too hotly, remind one of the dark places in the soul.  
  
"If I could have built a chain to hold you, I would have." He shifted position, sliding the hand that held my wrist away from him so that he lay half across my body. "You were a blade that needed reforging, Caliah, and I could see what I might have made of you. If I had kept you for myself, seventy years ago, forced you to stay..."  
  
For a moment, I opened my eyes on darkness and remembered the pleasures of submission, of accepting another's authority and choice in all matters; no will, no choice, no responsibility for choice. To be a possession, even a valued one...  
  
 _art not mine, wife? am not I all the world to thee, lovest me not, wilt not give me what I give to thee, wilt not cleave to me, forsake all others_  
  
... and Caliah of the War looked out at me from that darkness with her flat empty eyes and tattooed face. _Even when I was a slave,_ she whispered, _even then I gave him my truth and met him and died of him..._  
  
"I love you, Faber," I said, and it was true, because I did. "Let me go. This position is uncomfortable."  
  
His hand was a manacle on my wrist for a breath, and I felt that possessive darkness at the fringes of his mind before he let me go, the other hand stroking through my tangled hair. The moonlight caught his eyes as he raised himself on his elbow; all that joy in making was there, and the honest affection that could let another soul go free to be what she must be, do what she must do, for her sake and his own...  
  
"Do you love me?" he asked.  
  
"You know I do," I said, for he did.  
  
"For how long?" he asked. The shadows touched him again.  
  
I touched his free hand to my breasts. "As long as I am Caliah. Faber, you came for me, and you helped me to find my way out of Hell, and you are beautiful and dark-eyed and fierce and wonderful and kind. I love others as well, and so do you. But I love you now, and I will not cease from loving you."  
  
He reached out for me, hands firm with a contained strength, his body scarred as mine was now unmarred, and we held each other in the stagnant heat of the sleeping Ethereal. I felt the burning whirlpool of his emotions, anger and love and that darker wish all combined, and as I curled against him, I wished that I could share my own coolness, the clarity so recently regained and so fragile.  
  
 _mine_  
  
The darkness in the room grew deeper, and I knew that he was remembering a Habbalite, and dreaming of chains.

* * *

 **Jdge : Wherefore let the property be divided as has been said, with the first part going to the cousin of the second degree, and the...**  
  
I wiped a smudge of dust from my fingers, and skimmed down the rest of the page. No, no luck here. So far, my idea had not proved overly productive of results. At least I could read seventeenth-century shorthand. Age does have the odd advantage.  
  
A ceiling fan droned above me, keeping the air moving and stopping me from stifling entirely, and specks of dust drifted down in the light from the slatted window. It had been straightforward enough to talk my way into seeing the old records, saying that I was a student working on a project on the area. A useful thing, that, about modern times; one can see practically any document by claiming to be a student and working on a project.  
  
At least, I reflected, I knew which town I was dealing with, so I could skim for the Milverton business and forget the other trials.   
  
Before I had left Milverton this morning, I had spoken to Rigziel, explaining my worries about Faber, and about all of us. None of us could be entirely sure that the Ethereal was not affecting them. He had told me that he would keep an eye on Faber, and told me to have courage. It would have been easier to have courage next to them, rather than miles away and ignorant of anything that might be happening.  
  
Wait, this looked interesting. I absent-mindedly blotted the sweat from my forehead and fished out my notebook from where it had hidden itself.  
  
 **Jdge : Come, Mr Attorney, we are not here to listen to the folk tales of the village, but are here upon a charge of murder. Have to the point, man, and speak out.  
  
Att : I have only to say, my lord, that I would not take up the time of the court with this save to show that the people had good reason not to stir abroad that night, being affrighted as they were with the local tales.  
  
Jdge : Very well, man, very well then, but let us to the matter.  
  
Att : As you wish, my lord. Thomas Hommens did then go to the smithy, having had it sworn to him by David Jeffreys that he wished a knife made for his sister's kitchen.  
  
Jdge : And was this an uncommon thing?  
  
Att : It was common enough, my lord, but in this case it was witnessed by others, who saw Thomas Hommens on his way down to the smithy also.**  
  
I checked the page before, to see how much of this trial I had missed, but the paper had decayed and part of the writing was illegible. Annoyed, I turned back to the narrative.  
  
 **Jdge : And this was in the afternoon of the day in question?  
  
Att : It was, my lord.  
  
Jdge : Very well, man, continue.  
  
Att : My lord, I have several witnesses who will agree that in the mid evening, after sunset, Thomas Hommens returned to his wife's house...  
  
Jdge : His wife's house? Why say you not his house?  
  
Att : Indeed, my lord, it was a bone of contention between them, that it should have been left to her by her father, and that while he might have espoused her and become master of it, still by the law it was her own, and she would not make it over to him.  
  
Jdge : A plaguey hard thing, that a man's very dwelling should be a cause of dispute to him.  
  
Att : All the more so, my lord, in that her brother advised her to keep it for herself, reminding her that her husband was a stranger to the village, and that she might some day have need of it.  
  
Jdge : Continue, continue.  
  
Att : He returned to his wife's house, my lord, and some of those in the inn say that he came forth with a temper upon his face, black-avised with anger, and that they thought they heard crying within. I call Joshua Arthman to be sworn and give evidence.  
  
[Here Joshua Arthman was called to the witness stand and duly sworn.]**  
  
There was nothing supernatural in this so far, and yet something in it struck a chord in me. It was relevant, I was sure of that.  
  
 **Att : What is your occupation?  
  
J. : I have a farm at Milverton, sir.  
  
Att : Do you know the prisoner at the bar?  
  
J. : Aye, sir, he is David Jeffreys, of our village.  
  
Att : Did you know Thomas Hommens?  
  
J. : Aye, sir.  
  
Att : Will you give an account to the judge and to this courtroom of what passed between you on July last?  
  
J. : Well, sir, I had been busy in the fields that day, and so I left my Agnes to see to supper, and went down to the Green Man...  
  
Jdge : The Green Man?  
  
Att : It is the local inn, my lord.  
  
Jdge : Continue.  
  
J. : I was sitting there with some of my friends, Bernard and Matthew and Timothy, and we were saying nothing more than of the weather, when we saw Thomas Hommens coming down the road, and Timothy said to me, "A hot day, to have been at his work." For indeed, Thomas had his hammer still slung at his side, his small one that he used for finework, and there was soot on his shirt. And I said, to Timothy, "At least he need not labour from sun-up to sun-down as we do." For indeed, it seemed an easy thing to be a smith as he was, even from the city as he was, and not having to labour as poor men of the soil do...  
  
Jdge : To the point, man. How did he seem?  
  
J. : He seemed tired, my lord, and concerned, but not more than that.  
  
Jdge : Aye, and then?  
  
J. : Then he went into his wife's house, my lord, and some minutes after that, we did hear shouting from inside, and the sound of blows.  
  
Att : What did you think of that, then?  
  
J. : Why, sir, we thought that he must be having some quarrel with his wife. The world knew that he was not an easy man to be living with, intemperate as he was, but a man may do as he likes with his own, so we did not think to interfere.   
  
Att : And then?  
  
J. : He did come out of the house, sir, and this time his face was full of rage, and it seemed to me there was a difference in the way that his small hammer was in his belt. Timothy called out to him, thinking to jest, "What, man, has she not the supper ready yet? Come have a beer and sit with us." But Thomas Hommens answered him, very passionate, "I have no more time for that slut. Let her wanton as she wills now, she is none of mine, and those who would lie with her are welcome to her."   
  
Att : Said he often such things of his wife?  
  
J. : Indeed, sir, he had cried out against her in the past, saying that she cast her eyes too freely around her, but none of us had ever heard more than that, and my Agnes had often said that Sarah was a good woman, and that Thomas would say such things about any wife he was wed to.  
  
Jdge : Let us not hear so much about gossip, man, but continue.  
  
J. : Well, sir, we were much struck by this talk of his, and wondered whether he might have taken her in some foolishness, to be speaking so against her. He went down the road towards his smithy again, and when Timothy might have tried to stop him, I held him back, thinking that it was better that he spent his temper on the iron, rather than that he try it upon one of us.  
  
Att : And then?  
  
J.: Bernard called out to Martha, who is the cook at the Green Man, so please you, sir, and said that she might wish to go speak to Sarah Hommens, for none of us liked to pry, sir, but a woman may go in these cases where a man might not. So Martha said, aye, in a moment, when she had finished the pies, and ten minutes later she went across the road to look.  
  
Att : You are sure of this?  
  
J. : Indeed, sir, for we heard her put the pies in the oven.  
  
Att : Very well. And she went to the house of Sarah Hommens?  
  
J. : She did, sir, and she was not there but half a minute before she came running out with a great outcry, shaking her hands and crying to God for mercy. We - that is, my friends and I - went across to her.  
  
Jdge : A shame upon you that you had not gone across earlier, if this is what it might sound to be.  
  
J. : My lord, I can say only that we had not thought it our place to meddle in a private quarrel.  
  
Jdge : Go to, go to, a plague upon the man! The law is every man's business, and an this be murder that you might have prevented, the law will rest upon you also.**  
  
I paused in my copying to wipe my forehead again. The fan whirred steadily above me, dry and empty.  
  
 **J. : Well then, my lord, Martha cried out to us that there was bloody murder inside, and that she could not bear to look upon it. We went in, and there was nothing out of the ordinary in the hall, but then we heard a moaning from the upper rooms, my lord, and went up to see. Sarah Hommens was lying on the ground, my lord, with blood all on her head and body, and her brother David lay by her, and he was moaning, for he had also been beaten, and we looked at each other, Timothy and Bernard and Matthew and I, and we said, "Surely this must be Thomas' work."  
  
Att : So what did you then?  
  
J. : Well, sir, none of us were trained in doctoring, so I stayed with them while Bernard and Matthew went to find Old Ian, who is a cunning man - that is, sir, he knows about such things, and he came before long. He looked over both of them, and he clucked his tongue a great deal, and put bandages on them, then had us carry them down to rooms at the Green Man.  
  
Jdge : Have we testimony from this Old Ian?  
  
Att : No, my lord; he could not be found, and is often said to wander in the local woods, being fonder of them than of the village.  
  
Jdge : Aye, well then, perhaps such a thing may be understood. Continue your questioning.  
  
Att : And did either wake then?  
  
J. : David Jeffreys did, sir, and he was somewhat wandering in his mind, for he was calling to his sister, then saying that he had done nought that was wrong, and but embraced her out of kindness, and damning Thomas with every breath.  
  
Att : And his sister?  
  
J. : She slept, sir, for her wounds were very grave. Martha sat by her bed that night, and said that she spoke a little in her sleep, but nothing that made sense, only that she had loved him.  
  
Jdge : Which of the men was this?  
  
J. : I do not know, my lord.**  
  
It was still unclear, but I was more and more certain that I was holding a key in my hands to the puzzle. A murder trial, and some kind of shedding of blood, and the reference to folk tales... the answer was here, if only I could find it.  
  
 **Att : And David Jeffreys was left alone?  
  
J. : He was, sir, saying he wished to sleep.  
  
Att : My lord, you have already heard the evidence that there was a storm that night, which kept all in the village in their beds, as they have said, both for fear of the intemperate weather, and for the fear of certain folk bogies which were said to be abroad in the woods of a night. In the morning, search was made for Thomas Hommens, and he was found beneath a certain tree in those parts, that which was called the Hanging Oak, where young girls of the village were accustomed to hang up their mommets at harvest. As you have also heard, he had a grievous number of wounds upon him, both of a knife, and as might be of hands and teeth.   
  
Jdge : Aye, aye, so you have told us.  
  
Att : As all in the village have spoken for each other, and none other had so great a reason, it is my contention that during the night David Jeffreys did rise from his bed, angered for the assault upon himself and his sister, and did find Thomas Hommens, and then do bloody murder upon him. I will provide further witnesses who can attest that he had often spoken ill of the man, calling him foreigner and not of the village, and that he was a strong man, even with the wounds that he had already received.  
  
Jdge : And what of Sarah Hommens?  
  
Att : My lord, she died three days after, and never woke.  
  
Jdge : Such evidence as we have heard so far is circumstantial, man, and there may be others as have reason or wish to have committed such a bloody murder. What, is there none who can claim to have seen this David Jeffreys upon his way to the oak or the smithy, or even to have left the inn?   
  
Att : All declare that they closed their doors and windows, my lord, for fear of the storm and of the wood.  
  
Jdge : Mr Attorney, we are here upon the question of a life. Is there any man here from the village who makes open accusation of David Jeffreys?  
  
Att : No, sir, none will accuse him.**  
  
I turned the page, and the next section was utterly ruined. It was enough to make an Elohite swear, and I considered it, before deciding that the emotion was spent. Everything was here; the shedding of blood, a tree which had to be the focus of the Ethereal's Tether or link to the town, the persecution of an outsider, a ritual sacrifice...  
  
I rubbed at my forehead again, and checked further on in the manuscript. No further reference to this trial, and no other books going back that far. This was probably all that I was going to get.  
  
The reference to a "cunning man" intrigued me, and I put aside a certain coldly recognised frustration to consider it. That was a title often used for a local witch or warlock, and it would fit with the worshipper of an Ethereal. So he had come and heard the story, and then someone, or something, or some people...  
  
All the village saw nothing. All blind, all ignorant, all swearing to it in court.  
  
How many people had helped kill Thomas Hommens in front of the Hanging Tree? And what had answered them?  
  
Above me the fan hummed, churning in its endless motion. I checked my watch. An hour left before I needed to catch the last train that stopped at Milverton, and I could be back by sunset. That would allow me to check a few other books that might be relevant to this trial and the related events, and possibly find something to clarify the matter further.   
  
One could always hope, after all.

* * *

Outside the station, I noticed the twist of leaves held down by a stone at one side of the path, and my attitude clicked over into wariness. We Michaelites have our own waysigns and private signals, and the positioning and patterning of the leaves meant, "Demons in town." The broken pair of sticks set beside it marked Servitors of the War. Rigziel must have left it, which meant that he had been here, but there was no accompanying symbol giving me an alternative meeting place. Ergo, I was still to come to the inn, but carefully.  
  
Servitors of Baal, once my comrades and now my enemies. Baal had a very special place in his heart for deserters - it usually involved show trials and public executions. It was strange that my first thought was not one of fear for myself, but for Rigziel and Faber. Anything might have happened since that symbol was left. Anything at all.  
  
I left the leaves where they were, just in case someone might notice them having been moved, and took to the skirts of the wood, making my way up behind the houses and parallel to the road, towards the town. My backpack was manageable, and the setting sun gave enough light to be able to pick my way easily. Heat still hung in the air, thick and choking, and great thunderheads loomed in the sky above me as though about to fall.  
  
It was ten minutes before I reached the town proper, and got a view of the village square. Brambles and nettles had left their marks on my arms, as though trying to force me back to the road. I peered out towards the Green Man; it was the logical place for any strangers to be staying, and yes, even from here I could hear the sound of cheerful voices, too loud for the village and too sharp for the villagers. They must be in the main room of the inn.  
  
I dropped back into the woods, and spent the next fifteen minutes dodging round the outskirts of the village and to the back of the inn. If they were sitting in the main room, it was rather unlikely that they'd be watching the back stair - especially as it went through the kitchen.  
  
I, of course, had taken pains to make friends with Mary earlier, so I didn't need to do more than wave as I came into the kitchen. She giggled in a vaguely scolding way, and waved me past as I collected some apples from the fruitbowl.   
  
The back stairs were silent under my feet, and I ghosted along the corridor to our rooms. A thin slit of light lay across the floor from Rigziel's door, which stood an inch open. Setting my back against the opposite wall, I edged along to glance through the angle of vision I had.  
  
Rigziel lay on his bed, the crossword still open in his lap. His gaze flicked out towards the window, then back towards the door again.  
  
I let my muscles relax, and said, "Rigziel," quietly, pushing the door open.  
  
He nodded. "Close the door behind you." His voice was pitched similarly low. "Faber knows. He's down at the forge still. Did you get a chance to see them?"  
  
I shook my head, as I closed the door. "I was staying well clear till I had more information. How many?"  
  
"Four." He swung his legs round to the side of the bed, sitting up. "Travelling rugby players, according to the excuse they gave the landlord, and tough-looking Vessels. It sounds as if Baal wants this area shut down."  
  
"Do you think he wants the Ethereal bound or released?" I asked, sitting down next to him on the bed.  
  
"It may just be a status check on the current situation," Rigziel said. He flexed his long hands, letting the knuckles crack. "It's what I'd do for any important operations you'd been involved in."   
  
My face was blank and mild as I slipped the backpack straps off my shoulders, extracted my notes, and offered them to him. "This may shed some light on the situation."  
  
As he flicked through the pages, I found myself wondering again how much I had changed, and how different I was. How much would it take to make me the Punisher again? I was perfectly well aware that this course of thought was foolish and wasted time, but it was a poisonous serpent that nestled in my brain, that clamped around my heart. I might be a danger to Rigziel, to Faber. Was it nearness to me that was making him vulnerable? Could either of them trust me?  
  
Rigziel let the pages riffle shut. "Faber has nearly finished his job. I think you're right, this was what created the link to the Ethereal. We're going to need the chain he's making."  
  
"Is he all right?" I asked. My voice was level, Elohite.  
  
"He was disturbed. Even I could see that much." He reached across and dropped the notebook into my lap. "It helped him to have the forge to work with, though. There was a focus to him I hadn't seen before."  
  
I felt my lips curve a little, as I rose. "I have faith in him." I dropped the notebook on the bed. "I have less faith in myself." The words were as calm as I had hoped they would be."  
  
Rigziel leaned on one arm, considering me. "Because of what you were, Caliah? You Redeemed. You are an angel now, my sister again."  
  
"Did Michael send you to watch me?" The question existed, and would not go away if I did not ask it. "He must have known that I was here before. I trust him. I trust you. I wonder about myself."  
  
 _sister_  
  
"Michael had his reasons," Rigziel said. "It doesn't mean that I don't trust you."   
  
Truth ran behind his words, and I nodded, turning back towards him. "It's a relief. Thank you."  
  
There is a turn of battle-delight that is mingled with good humor and shaded with the knowledge of friends who have died. It ran in both of us for that moment, the certain surety of kinship, of comradeship and binding. He rose and embraced me, as simply and naturally as though I had never Fallen, as though he were not a thousand years older than me. It was the recognition of kind for kind.  
  
 _sister, my sister, let me hold thee against the night, against the cold, my sister_  
  
"Never again," he said, gently. It was supposed to be my place to understand the emotions of others and to compensate for them, but this time I was content to lean on him and accept his comfort.   
  
A breeze made the candles gutter, and I turned my head as I stood there in Rigziel's embrace to see who it was. Cold air tugged at my hair, and I saw Faber's silhouette against the light, but the blaze of anger that stood there was foreign to me. This bitterness, this jealousy was not Faber as I knew him. His eyes burned like black iron as he watched us, and I felt Rigziel's hand tighten in the small of my back, knotting into a fist.  
  
"What's this," Faber said, almost gently. "What's this, then?"  
  
 _what's this, harlot? wilt play the slut with any but thy husband?_  
  
I moved my own hand behind my back, pushing Rigziel's fist away as I stepped back from him, and I tried to taste the patterns of emotion in the air. It was like hot tin, acid on the tongue, a rising madness. "He is my brother, Faber. We are kin, and he was comforting me."  
  
Rigziel growled in his throat, something in him reacting to the accusation in Faber's stance. "And if she made some choice, Creationer, are you saying she is yours to keep?"  
  
 _damn thee, thou art a foreigner and none of ours_  
  
I felt myself shaking, the forces gathering round us and grasping at us, moulding us. "Faber. Rigziel. This isn't what we are. This isn't who we are."  
  
The muscles knotted in Rigziel's shoulders as he stepped towards Faber. "Stop this foolishness, smith..."  
  
It came as a surprise to both him and me when Faber's right hand came up, and I saw the black iron links wrapped around it, a thin chain that curved over his knuckles and spilled stray links down his arm. He lashed out at Rigziel, his movement a sword's edge, darting out like a tongue of fire but with the weight of his body behind it as he moved into the blow. Rigziel flicked his head backwards, his left side moving with it, but it was a breath too slow and too late. Faber's strike took him in the side of the face, and the chain laid his cheek open to the bone in a long cut, while the force of the blow jerked him into another pace backwards. Blood spattered down Rigziel's t-shirt, and ran scarlet over Faber's fist, the same colour as the fury I felt dancing in him in hot alien flows.  
  
My body jerked into motion, and I stepped smoothly between the two men, both hands raised and empty. "Faber." I pitched my voice for him, watching his eyes. "Faber, listen to me." I nearly sang the words. "Trust me. I swear you are not betrayed." Behind me, I heard Rigziel take a step back, heard the rustle of movement as he raised his hand to touch his face. "We care for you, Faber, we are your friends and your own kind. I love you."  
  
 _trust me, we have done no wrong, husband, we did not betray you_  
  
His eyes were hot and dark, hungry and desperate. As he took a pace towards me, he let his right hand fall. "What, my love? What have you to say now?"  
  
 _now I have taken you in your lust_  
  
"I am still true." Rigziel was a knot of confusion, stillness and anger twisted together, but I sensed that he would let me try to calm Faber. "There is some madness abroad."  
  
 _now I am certain_  
  
"Liar," he said, and his blow came without warning.  
  
 _liar_  
  
It was a straight belly-punch, delivered in close and with his full strength behind it, and it completely winded me. He struck me again , a blow to the side of the head as I began to fall, gasping for breath - I had never known him so dangerous, so uncontrolled, I had underestimated his speed - and then began to kick at me as I lay there on the ground. His foot took me in the right wrist as I tried to shove myself upright, and when I fell again he kicked me in the ribs. I did not have the air in my lungs to try to call out to him.  
  
 _liar, liar, liar, betrayer and liar_  
  
There was a sweep of motion above me, and I heard the men grappling, heard the sound of blows and a choking noise, then a crash as they both collided with the wall. I tried to straighten out of the ball that I was curled into, but the body's reflexes are hard to override.  
  
Faber's emotions were still the same coil of blood-red anger, tangled with the black of possessiveness and lust, and now I felt something of the same threaded through Rigziel. Fear ran in my veins, and held me on the floor as I heard the door slammed open, and a yell, then a series of crashes as someone went falling down the stairs. Cries from downstairs, a babel of voices...  
  
Rigziel shut the door, cutting them off. The boards creaked as he knelt down beside me, hand warm on my forehead as he traced the line of brow and cheek. "Caliah? It's all right. I won't let him hurt you again. You're safe now."  
  
The threads of black and red deepened in him. Dimly below I heard the front door slamming, the sound of voices a tiny murmur against the hammer of my heart and the breath in my lungs. Something was stirring through the village, in Faber, in Rigziel, and in myself. Something was coming to life in every being within the boundaries.  
  
"You're safe now," Rigziel murmured, his hand stroking down my neck to follow my collarbone. His touch was gentle, his strength suppressed. "I won't let anyone harm you, my sister. You're mine, mine to me..."  
  
 _sister, let me comfort, sister, my sister, my lover_  
  
The same cording of emotions pulled me towards him, tilted my head to his as I reached up to slip my arms around his neck, quickened my pulse and closed my eyes. This was how it should be, this was what was supposed to be happening, this was how it was and had been and would be...  
  
I turned away from him, struggling in his arms, and slammed my hand into the boards of the floor until it ached. The pain was a hot burning against the drag back to Rigziel...  
  
 _brother_  
  
"Caliah." I couldn't even be sure if he said my name, or someone else's name. His hands were hot on my shoulders. I could have looked into his eyes and lost myself. "What is it, my sister?"  
  
I met his eyes, and stood on the dizzy edge of a precipice. The chain between us was pulling tighter, dragging us into each other's arms, into a role that the Ethereal had cast us for and that was not who we _were_.   
  
We were being used. A purer flame burned in me, the heat of War that would not admit defeat, that would not give up the struggle. I would not be used again.  
  
"Rigziel." I pitched it sharp and cutting. "Rigziel, what is our truth? What is your Truth? What are you, Seraph? What are you?"  
  
His fingers began to bite into my shoulders, but he still had the dark twist of the Ethereal upon him. "You aren't making sense, Caliah. I know what we are."  
  
"You don't." I reached up to touch his marred cheek, then held the bloody hand in front of his face. "Look at this, Rigziel. _Look at it._ We're angels of War. Resonate on me, Rigziel." Something was coming loose, something at the heart of him. "Resonate me and hear the truth, we're not humans, we're not of this village, we're being _used_!"  
  
"Caliah." His voice had more of a growl to it this time, more dangerous, but I could feel the struggle in him, the beginnings of recognition. "Caliah. I am Rigziel. I am a Seraph. I am a Seraph of War..."  
  
It broke.  
  
Rigziel's fingers loosened from my shoulders, and he rose to his feet, anger roaring in him like the north wind. "And we've played into its hands."  
  
"I know." I shook myself, rising in turn. Possibly a couple of broken ribs, some bruises, nothing too serious. "And Faber's cast as the smith. Which means that..."  
  
Rigziel cut across me, finishing the sentence, "That it will have him killed, repeat the pattern, and be free."  
  
We both noticed the silence below at the same moment. The inn was empty.  
  
"Hunt's up," Rigziel said, curtly. "Assuming it follows the pattern, he'll have gone towards the smithy."  
  
"They'll have to kill him at the tree." I was already sliding my automatic from my rucksack, and shrugging my shoulder holster on. Couldn't risk losing it in the forest if I just stuck it through my belt. "We need an intercept course."  
  
"Then we need to know where the tree is." Rigziel seemed weaponless as he opened the door, but I knew where at least some of his knives were hidden, and I knew that he could summon up his axe with a moment's thought. "Can you get anything?"  
  
I closed my eyes, and strained to reach through the flooding gusts of anger and drought that blew through the village, past the Ethereal's presence that was singing louder with every passing second, to try and gain some sense of where the villagers were. I could feel my forehead wrinkling and my hands tightening at my sides, as I pushed harder.   
  
"We're already off the pattern," Rigziel said, as he waited. "We should be dead or dying."  
  
"Close enough." I spoke vaguely, trying to feel beyond... and, yes, _there_ I had something. A flame of fury, moving in haste, with four others on its heels, and a pack of hunters beyond that.   
  
I opened my eyes. "Due north-west of here, on a flat east heading for the moment. It's pulled in the Baalites as hunters."  
  
Rigziel snorted. "Makes sense. They fit the part."  
  
We ran down the stairs together, Rigziel a pace ahead, and turned with a skid at the bottom to see the main room empty, drinks spilled or put aside, one newspaper strewn across the floor in rumpled sheets of print. The door hung open limply, but the air was still and dead, laden with heat and rage.   
  
In the woods, the branches criss-crossed above our heads like the bars of a cage, and the sky was a sullen ominous darkness of clouds that seemed to throb with a hidden light of restrained lightning. Rigziel's breathing was steady as he ran a few paces ahead of me, and in the distance we could hear the yelling of the pack - a mingling of voices, screaming things that could not have made sense to them, archaic insults and accusations of murderer, and even the odd note of Helltongue to it, spat on a deeper note that cut through the sound like jagged iron. Sweat plastered my t-shirt against my body, and matted my hair on my forehead. I could feel the pulsing of the Ethereal, stronger and stronger now, like a rise to orgasm or execution. We were running on the heading that I had called out, in the hopes of intercepting Faber, but more and more I was wondering if we had a chance of success.   
  
Rigziel suddenly froze, and I caught my own pace, eyes flicking to left and right for whatever he had seen.  
  
"That way," he said, pointing through the trees to our left. "That's where it _is_. They'll harry him there."  
  
I nodded, accepting his judgement of the matter. The thought that we might be too late was considered, and set aside. Either we would succeed, or we would not, but it would not be for want of effort on our part.  
  
A moment later we were running again, faster now, leaving a trail behind us of trodden leaves and swaying twigs. Something was trying to rise in me again, as I watched Rigziel's back, and thought of him, thought of Faber...  
  
 _blood_  
  
I was a Servitor of War.  
  
 _blood must be answered with blood_  
  
The yelling behind us rose another note as we broke out into a clearing. At the centre rose an oak, an old one, and I shivered as I saw that the branches were swaying, even though there was still no wind. The ground rose around it, so that it stood on a small knoll, but no other trees were near it. Four pathways led out of the clearing, north, south, east, west.  
  
I could feel the smoke of fear and blood and anger in the air.   
  
Rigziel touched my shoulder, and I was grateful for the pain as his fingers bit into where they had marked me earlier. It helped me regain my balance. "Which way?" he asked. The sounds of the mob seemed to be throughout the entire wood now, and it was impossible to tell which direction they were coming from with any degree of surety.  
  
I gathered my focus, and pointed towards the south pathway. "That way. Fast. They're only a few minutes off."  
  
Rigziel cursed, and released me, running in the direction that I had pointed. I was only a step behind him, again, and still there was no wind, still the air would not move, still the sky lay on us like the weight of entropy, stagnant and waiting for blood. In front of us the path was shadowed nearly to darkness, as ivy bound the branches above together into a heavy roof and gorse thicketed on either side. Beyond that there was another small clearing, lit dully by the oppressive sky.  
  
Faber stood there, trying to catch his breath. He was panting, face streaked with sweat and dust, blood matting one side of his hair, and his shirt was ripped down the right sleeve. There was no sign of the chain, I noted automatically. His posture was that of a hunted man, and even as he gasped for breath, his head was cocked to listen for the sound of the hunt.   
  
_blood must have blood_  
  
Rigziel and I stepped out of the shadows of the trail, and Faber's attention snapped towards us. The light made hollow darkness of his eyes, and turned his face to a scarred mask of anger. "What, you again? Is't not enough that the village has turned against me, that I must flee for my life?"  
  
"Faber," said Rigziel, voice like a deep bell, truth in it. "Recognise us."  
  
For a moment I saw Faber surface behind the eyes of the man we faced, the true Faber, the Malakite that had dragged me kicking and screaming to Redemption, the angel who liked his rot-gut whisky, the Servitor of Creation, the warrior of God. For that single moment we saw him, and the fury and trapped despair at what he was being forced into, that all his oaths had failed to keep him from. For that moment there was the heat of molten metal in him, and the smith's voice blended with Faber's own as he said, "Do what you must."  
  
Then the true Faber was gone, and only the man faced us again, the smith revenant and following the Ethereal's drawing. Again I felt the pulling at myself, the urges to kill Faber or tangle myself in Rigziel's arms, to do what the Ethereal demanded of me.  
  
 _blood must have blood_  
  
Behind him, people broke into the clearing, four strangers in the forefront, others behind them who I recognised, young, old, the people of the village, but with the personalities of strangers laid across their faces like masks.  
  
"I love you, Faber," I said, and my gun was cool in my hand as I pulled the trigger, my aim sure as my bullet took him in the chest, and I watched the impact spin him round and slam him to the ground, watched the blood run out and stain the dry grass as he lay there. The light had gone out of his eyes, and his face was empty of Faber and of smith. He was only a jumble of limbs in the ominous light, only a dead body.  
  
There would be no Trauma for him. I knew that. He would unfurl dark wings in Heaven and lose nothing. It was only a Vessel. I had done what was necessary. I grounded myself in the words, the _faith_ , and held my gun steady, did not weep.  
  
Wind scythed through the clearing in a shriek of fury, ripping the leaves from the branches and tearing at clothing. Above us the clouds roiled madly, and thunder shuddered in long drumrolls, a vibration felt in the bones, in chest and lungs and heart. And the Ethereal screamed and screamed and _screamed_.  
  
The four strangers at the front were blinking now, shaking their heads like dogs coming out of water. One, the leader by his bearing, looked at the others, then at the still-confused mob behind them, then at Faber's body, then Rigziel and myself. He opened his mouth, then shut it, then said, "Shit."   
  
Admirable summation, I thought, holding tight to myself amid the Ethereal's waves of screaming.   
  
"What are your orders?" Rigziel's tone was pitched to cut through the howling of the wind, and he stepped forward sharply. "Pull yourself together, soldier. You were to keep the thing bound, right?"  
  
The other man - he had to be a Servitor of Baal - nodded, eyes still dazed. "Yes, si - oh, the Game take it, yes, we were, and what the hell is going on here?"  
  
"Blood sacrifice to free it." Rigziel jerked his chin towards Faber's body. "We stopped it before it happened, but if it kills enough people it may still be able to do it."  
  
Another of the Baal-Servitors had become coherent enough to understand that. He paled in comprehension. "Can we cut it down?"  
  
Rigziel turned to me. "Faber's chain?"  
  
I shoved the gun back into its holster. None of the Servitors of the War had the makings in them of an immediate attack, and I needed both hands free. Kneeling down by Faber's body, I quickly went through the pockets, then glanced up and shook my head to Rigziel. "Not on him, sir." Memories of my own servitude to Baal burned in me, and I knew that the others would react more smoothly if Rigziel and I seemed to be similar to them. Which meant dutiful obedience to superiors and orders, for a start. "Might be at the smithy, sir. Text said he went there first."  
  
The wind was blowing steadily now, rippling the branches of the trees in long constant waves, and the Ethereal's half-awake screaming had settled down to a low, throbbing growl. Not quite awake yet, but almost, almost...  
  
 _blood_  
  
Beyond us, the villagers shook their heads, seeming to focus on our little group of angels and demons like hounds pointing towards their prey. The same blood-light showed in all of their eyes, a foreshadowing of murder.  
  
The first Servitor of Baal cursed in Helltongue, and was reaching for his own gun when Rigziel snapped, "Hold it. Any blood will help it, and that includes theirs. You kill them, you'll be helping it free."  
  
The second one said, more panicky now, "You're joking. You mean we can't even _fight_?"  
  
Rigziel glanced to me. I nodded. He said, towards them, "She'll get the chain we had made. It'll bind it."  
  
"It's that," I added smoothly, "or you get to go back to the Prince of the War and explain how you helped let it free."  
  
"Bitch," said the first one, meditatively. "But you've got that right, at least. Run fast, girl."  
  
I didn't wait for a second nod from Rigziel, but took off down the track behind us, curving at the Ethereal's glade and back towards the town again. It was a dangerous path, yes, but trying to get through the mob of villagers would have been simply stupid. As I ran, the lightning above ripped holes in the clouds, and flashed white, making me blink and stumble. The thunder was directly behind it, a deep booming that echoed in the wood of the trees and in the earth beneath my feet. Further back, I could hear the sound of voices, and I ignored them as I ran.   
  
I thought that someone else ran behind me on the track, through the thunder and lightning and ceaseless wind. She would have been tattooed, that pursuer, a Habbalite of Baal with all the scorn of Hell, a flawed blade that drew blood and that would not see her own blindness. She followed me through the storm, and I thought that I could hear her voice.  
  
 _you killed him, as he once killed you, but it is not done yet, they must die, they would kill you, they are outsiders, they must die_  
  
Or was that the voice of the Ethereal?  
  
 _blood must have blood_  
  
I burst from the wood, and cried out in relief, the sudden emptiness around me desperately welcome. The trees were still thrashing behind me as I ran down the road towards the smithy. There were marks on the door where someone had beaten on it, and one hinge was ripped from the frame. Inside, the hurricane lantern on one side had been thrown down to lie in shards of glass across the floor, and the only light came from the dim glow of the coals that still burned in the forge - a red light, a bloodlight, but a saner light than the mad white lightning and the thunderlight that glowed in the eyes of the villagers.  
  
I looked around me frantically. It was a minute before I managed to find the chain, half wrapped around a chair-leg, still smeared with blood. It was smooth in my hands, dark and cool against my skin, and I could feel the power leashed inside it like the foundations of mountains, ready to rise and hold.  
  
Wrapping it round my wrist and arm and chest - there was several metres of it, and it weighed on me - I left the smithy and turned to the wood again. This time I could feel its rejection, and had to wonder whether it knew what I was carrying. The Ethereal was not fully awake yet - that much I could sense - but it strained at its binding more with every passing minute. The heavy air shook with the wind and throbbed like a heart.  
  
 _not of us_  
  
I forced my way against the driving wind, ducking under the branches as they clawed at the air above my head. The track seemed darker now, and to follow it would be to go into a mystery which I would not survive...  
  
 _blood will have blood_  
  
... and Rigziel would be waiting for me. So I ran.  
  
I could have been running forever, or only for a few minutes. The paths tried to double back on themselves, but I remembered the way, and the Ethereal tried to run in my blood again, to pull me back into some role, but I felt the flame of presences ahead of me, Rigziel and the Servitors of Baal, and I chose not to listen. Not again, I repeated to myself, not again.  
  
When I caught sight of the back of the mob ahead of me, I permitted myself a moment of annoyance at the sheer perversity of the situation. There was absolutely no possibility of my trying to cut off the path and through the trees - basic common sense could provide me with half a dozen unpleasant images of what that might result in - and I didn't have time to try and circle round and find another path.   
  
Fortunately, I was comparatively light, and they were not looking behind them. The first man that I landed on crumpled to his knees, but fell against the woman in front of him. I scrambled onto her shoulders, swaying in the wind as she yelled indignantly, and managed to land one foot on the head of the man in front of her without falling off.   
  
The mass beneath me ebbed and jerked, and I caught sight of the main clearing ahead of them. It was the clearing of the Hanging Oak, and Rigziel and the four Servitors of the War had been backed up against it. They had clearly chosen to try and fight bloodlessly - for the moment - and a Song of Shields hung in the air round them, sparking and flaring as the crowd pushed at it. The Ethereal's shrieking must have drowned out the Symphonic disturbance, for I had heard nothing. It was a sensible tactic, but a doomed one - it wouldn't have been long before they ran out of Essence, or before the Ethereal simply started having the villagers killing each other.  
  
 _blood must have blood_  
  
The temptation caught me by the throat, like a lover's hand, just to stand and watch. See them torn apart, see it happen, apart and godlike. I need not interfere, I didn't have to be emotional, I just had to let it all happen, perfectly objectively, and didn't I really want to see the Servitors of Baal pay, didn't I want to see them all pay...  
  
Rigziel caught sight of me, and yelled wordlessly, waving a hand in my direction. I waved back, almost fell off my perch, rebalanced myself, scrambled over a few shoulders, and found myself carried in a surge of the mob up against the Shield. It flared most efficiently as I was slammed into it, and I was knocked off my perch into the mob. Scrambling to my feet, I elbowed one man in the stomach, hit a woman in the side of the neck as she tried to claw my eyes out, and fought to stay upright.  
  
There was a sudden cessation of pressure in front of me, and I saw the green shimmer of the Shield collapse. Two of the Servitors of Baal grabbed for me, hauling me back against the trunk of the tree while the others tried to hold the townspeople off.  
  
"You'd better have got it, after that," Rigziel commented, and slammed an importunate young man in the face, breaking his nose.  
  
"Yes." I didn't waste words, but began uncoiling the thin chain from my arm and chest. My flicked glance at Rigziel was very quick - I knew he would understand what I had in mind. This creature was too dangerous to simply rebind, whatever the Servitors of Baal had in mind. I dodged a kick from an elderly woman. "Everyone grab this, get it round the tree, put Essence into it, that should do it."  
  
The leader of the Servitors of the War had been looking at me with a cold, slow recognition in his eyes. "You're that Renegade bitch. Caliah. The one who was Baal's hound."  
  
I met his gaze squarely. "And did the news reports ever call me inefficient?"  
  
He snarled, and grabbed for an end of the chain. "Do as the bitch says." The other three managed to get hold of sections of it, but we were only barely holding the villagers off now, all of us bleeding from some wound or other. The thunder above was a gloating rumble of hunger, as the lightning limmed us all in a blank and furious white again, sharpening the clearing to a painful brightness.  
  
Essence burned from me in a scream as I pressed my part of the chain against the trunk of the tree, and I felt the Ethereal scream in response, wholly furious and disbelieving. Notes of Essence, or song, answered me from four other points round the tree; our power was a coiling snake, a serpent of iron, a weight of centuries, all the power of fury, and it drove the Ethereal back down. The wind began to ebb and the thunder was silenced, as the Ethereal withdrew its strength in an attempt to fight us and reclaim its ascendancy.  
  
Rigziel's axe hammered into the side of the tree, above where we held the chain, and now the Ethereal's scream was one of pure despair. We had prevented it from escaping elsewhere in the wood with the chain, and now Rigziel was destroying its only link to the corporeal plane.  
  
 _no_  
  
"Yes," I murmured, and I heard other voices echo me in the stilling air.  
  
 _no no no_  
  
The axe's blade cut through to the heartwood of the tree, and something broke. Something fundamental to the tree shattered, and we all seemed to be inside a sphere of breaking glass, that shook itself to pieces and fell into shards of decay. Dust exploded outwards, the dust of centuries, and the chain seared all our hands as it grew molten and burned its way into the tree trunk. The tree was falling to rot and dust as it should have done hundreds of years ago, as its possessing force was driven back to the Marches, and we all heard the cry of loss and hopelessness.  
  
Then, silence. I was standing in darkness. I tried opening my eyes, and shaking off some of the dust that covered them.   
  
We were all at the same positions round the tree, Servitors of War and of the War alike, that we had been holding when we activated the chain. Dust lay thickly over us, and the tree itself had simply come apart, with nothing left except the stump. The chain had melted its way into the wood, and still smouldered in an iron ring that encircled the top of the stump.   
  
Automatically, Rigziel wiped dust and sap from the blade of his axe against his jeans. The villagers had fallen where they stood, and now lay in quiet sleep, their faces placid and even happy.   
  
Again, the leader of the Servitors of Baal was a step or two ahead of his minions in recovering consciousness. He snarled, "What. Have. You. Done."  
  
"It's entirely up to you," I said, before Rigziel could say something inconveniently truthful. "You can start a fight, and one of us will call to Michael, and given how important this was - well, he'll come. And you can call Baal, and they will both be royally pissed with us. No?"  
  
He grunted, watching me, and I carefully reached out to taste his emotions. He was uncertain that he could win an outright battle, and though he would dearly love to take me down to Hell in chains, a report of my current whereabouts would be nearly as good.   
  
"On the other hand," I kept my voice smooth, "we both walk away from this. Destroying the thing was within your mission parameters, wasn't it?" The spike of affirmation in him showed that it was, whatever he refused to say. "So you came here to find a group of angels accidentally about to let it free, and you managed to destroy it before it got out. Not too bad. Not too bad at all. Much better than being killed by the angels and having to explain it after you get out of Trauma."  
  
Rigziel lowered the head of his axe to the ground, and leaned on the handle, grinning unpleasantly. I could sense that though he disliked - as ever - my shading of the truth with lies, he was prepared to tolerate it and to lend a bit of non-verbal support.  
  
"We're four to two," the leader grunted, but I felt the unwillingness in him for another fight, and the angling for a position of advantage.  
  
"And I'm sure that all your followers are just as good in a fight as you are." I smiled blandly.   
  
"But, boss," one of his minions muttered, "we can't just..."  
  
The leader eyed me, then Rigziel, then said, "If I never see you two again, it'll be too soon."  
  
"It's mutual," Rigziel muttered, eyeing him.  
  
The leader nodded. He backed off one step, then another, and gestured to his followers to surround him. They watched us as they retreated down one of the paths, leaving us alone in the clear night.  
  
"It's gone," I said, and heard my voice echo in the silence.   
  
"Yes." Rigziel sounded positively brusque. "I know it's gone. And now I'd appreciate it if _we_ were gone, Caliah."  
  
I couldn't help smiling, just a little, as I spent my remaining measures of Essence and took celestial form, feeling the lightness in my limbs and the cool caress of the Symphony. The tones rang through the night as Rigziel assumed celestial form behind me, and I tilted my head to see his six amethyst wings spreading.  
  
He sang a chuckle, winding a length of his tail around my waist. "Don't want to lose you, do I?"  
  
"Rigziel..." I said, as I ascended.  
  
The world changed, and we were standing in his tent, in front of his glowing Heart.  
  
"... that isn't funny."  
  
"I can't see why the Elohim should be the ones to get all the sarcasm." He uncoiled his tail again, and hung his axe neatly up in its usual hooks. "And yes, I'll go and hand in the report, while you check on the third member of our mission."  
  
"Brother," I said, and took the initiative by embracing him this time.  
  
He folded gem-feathered wings around me for a moment, in a haze of purple, before releasing me. "On the whole, he's not that bad, really, for a..."  
  
"For a Creationer?" I asked, moving across to the tent flap.  
  
"For a Malakite, I was going to say."   
  
I enjoyed the feeling of cool amusement from him and myself both, as I left the tent. 

* * *

Faber found me before I found him. He had come straight to the Groves upon waking in front of his Heart - so he told me, while demanding to know what had happened - and spent the last hour or so demanding a Vessel from anyone who would listen to him. I forced him to sit down, and explained what had been going on. I also explained that he'd be needed to give a full report, which did more than anything else to restore him to his usual mood of world-weariness.  
  
"I feel as if I was more of a liability to you down there than anything else," he commented, sprawled on the floor in my tent.  
  
I shook my head. "We would have been lost without your binding chain. Also, even if we had not been a catalyst for waking it, somebody else would, sooner or later. It was only a matter of time."  
  
"Do you suppose Michael knew what might happen, when he sent you down there?" Faber looked up to meet my eyes, his dark wings curling over him in a thundercloud billow of shadows.  
  
I had considered that several times by now. "He might have seen it as a possibility."  
  
Carefully, Faber said, "There was a time when you'd have seen that as an insult or as him using you."  
  
"He trusted us to handle it." I sat down next to him on the ground, and traced the bones in the back of his right hand. "You trusted me to do what was necessary. He trusted us to be able to do what was necessary."  
  
"And that's enough?" Faber asked.  
  
I thought of the depth of love that implied, which I had once been able to forget. "Yes." The morning light streamed through the flap of the tent. "That's enough."


End file.
